For Harnadino harbor lies
But fifty leagues ahead,
So an’ we speak no sail this week
We dine on Spanish bread;
So an’ we grip no scented ship
There’s a fairer goal to our golden trip
I’ the bay, i’ the bay;
So handle your hemp as ye polish your steel,
Gold’s in the offing, war’s at the wheel,—
And you’re out wi’ me to the Carib Sea,